guidance

This post was a monster hit. People still email me for the title.
I know it really resonated with you guys, and even though it has only been a couple of months, I needed to read it again so I’m assuming you do too. Happy Saturday!

LET IT GO…

This is a sculpture I own which I call LETTING GO.
I had to show you the entire piece, but if you zoom in on her face –– it’s eerily peaceful…in her free-fall into the abyss. Hauntingly so.
I learn from her every day.

This poem by Safire Rose is the perfect reminder for this BIG energy of NEW BEGINNINGS that is currently pouring in. FIRST you have to Let Go. BTW –– it is in no way gender specific…men too!
Carry On,
xox

She let go.

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear.

She let go of the judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.

She didn’t search the scriptures.

She just let go.

She let go of all of the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.

She didn’t call the prayer line.

She didn’t utter one word.

She just let go.

No one was around when it happened.

There was no applause or congratulations.

No one thanked her or praised her.

No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort.

There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.

It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face.

A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…

~ Rev. Safire Rose

BEFALL:
verb: (used without object), befell, befallen,befalling.
to happen or occur.
to come, as by right.
3.verb: to happen to, especially by chance or fate.

I have become aware of late, that I am a pain in the Universal ass.

I suppose I always knew it, I suspected as much, but today I feel that it has become an undisputed fact.

You see, when I take off on my morning walks, one of the first things I ask the Universe, besides helping me to sidestep the dog poo; is to give me a message — hey guys… you know what I want — show me something I need to know!

That means the Universe has to put down its coffee, get dressed, and pay attention to…me.
The pain in the ass.

If you follow me regularly you are well aware that most days I get jack-nuthin’, (the Universe gets caught up in an article on the Huffington Post) while other times I actually receive some answers in the form of a cryptic haiku on a Post It, a tiny gnome village or a bird-strike omen — you know, the usual.

Anytime I spy something out of the ordinary I pick it up, truly convinced that it holds a message just for me, and today was no different.

It seems our entire neighborhood is under construction these days, developers tearing down the smaller, quaint, 1930’s homes to throw up another two-story, Leave It To Beaver style behemoth.

At eight in the morning the streets are lined with construction trucks, roach coaches…and men. Lots and lots of virile young men.

Now, as a woman, I have a kind of built-in shame meter that makes me automatically cross the street when I see men in tool belts and hard hats. All those years of wolf whistles and cat calls have trained me well.
The thing is, I am no longer the age where I elicit that sort of display of machismo. I am just south of sixty, and even though I am still technically a woman, I’m sure I am older than most of their mothers.

These days they are polite, they smile at me and say “good morning” like I’m their fucking grandma in yoga pants. I haven’t heard anything resembling a catcall in over ten years; (she says with immense resentment) yet, still I run. Middle aged wishful thinking I suppose.
Anyhow…
This cruddy, yellow flash card caught my attention as I jumped up on the curb after sprinting across the street to avoid a construction crew and their catcalls.

I actually ran past it in my zealousness to escape the nonexistent wolf whistles, but once I had seen it I knew I had to take my chances and double back around to find out what it was. When I bent over to retrieve the card I made sure my ass was pointed in the opposite direction of the men, you know, so as not to tease them.

It was the flash card pictured above. It has the word “befall” in middle-school-aged boy scrawl, with a couple of the definitions on the back.

It was trash day yesterday so I’m pretty sure the card had just escaped its fate by falling on the ground. I have to tell myself that to override any guilt I have about sabotaging some kid’s English final by hijacking card #2 with the word befall on it.

Technically I was picking up litter, so calm down.

Befall. What an old-fashioned, Elizabethan kind of word.

“What fate will befall you Janet Bertolus?”
Can’t you guys just hear those words spoken by a handsome King, who wants me to be his Queen (naturally) as I ride off into the sunset on a white horse with a young construction worker who has found me irresistible? Yeah, me neither.

My immediate reaction? Foreboding. Like it was a warning.
But when you throw down a word like BEFALL Universe, you get me thinking. And then I remembered the bird strike, and omens, and the fact that sometimes things that SEEM awful…aren’t.

What if it’s foretelling something magical that’s going transpire by chance or fate? What if befall means: to come as if by right — like I’m entitled to everything wonderful?
Much better, right?

“Great success was to befall Janet Bertolus in the very near future.” Oh, I like that one.

So you guys, what if you were as big of a pain in the ass as I am, and you asked for a sign from the Universe? What word do you think you’d get? Remember, these guys are tricky — nothing is ever obvious.

What fate will BEFALL you this fine weekend? A trip? A graduation? A great meal? The time to curl up with a good book?
More importantly, what are you entitled to?

Aren’t you liking the word BEFALL more and more? I am.

Carry on,
xox

I can’t ever imagine taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune. Can you? No, of course you can’t!
Yet, I know people like that exist.
You know, they hang around the not so nice people.

I hear them in line at Alfreds;
I’ve overheard their telephone conversations (okay, just one side, but you can still get the gist) in airport terminals;
and someone has actually said something snarky and malicious TO MY FACE about a mutual acquaintance.
More than once.

The first time it came as such a shock that I just stammered, the food falling from my surprised lips, and to my credit I neither agreed nor rose to our friends defense — I just got up and left.

I say it’s to my credit because if I had agreed with the villainous, insane pleasure this woman was taking at the expense of said friend, well, I would have had to join The Douche Bag Club, a club so fraught with stink that you can only remain a member for about one month before dying of asphyxiation.

If I had come to our friend’s defense it would have come to blows and the place we were in was public, and although I may be on the small and polite side, I’m a scrappy spider monkey and I would have taken. her. down.

Plus I was wearing a skirt. And heels. And you have to take those things into account. You cannot wage a good assault in that kind of outfit.

All this to say: When it happened to me again, with someone different, I didn’t hesitate to speak up.

This time I had on pants; and comfortable shoes; and it was a telephone conversation so I could count on very little blood being shed.

Someone we knew had lost a ton of money when one of their stores closed. A real shitastrophy.
I had actually been in on several of the discussions leading up to the closure so I was aware that it had been an extremely hard choice for them to make.

This other person was deriving such delicious gratification, satisfaction, even enjoyment in relaying all the lurid details, as she understood them to be, that her glee reached a fever pitch as she exclaimed how much she loved when “rich people failed big.”

“Hold it right there.” I ordered, after finally hearing enough,
“Although it may look otherwise, it was a smart business decision, besides, that rich person is out in the world doing good things. Remember? They used to pay your salary and health insurance, and although they can probably absorb the loss, it’s still a shit-ton of money and I can assure you, none of this feels good to them.”

My words fell on deaf ears; she had HER story to tell that was a lot juicier but — nowhere near the truth.

It was a tale rife with bankruptcy, botched Botox and marital woes — and I gotta tell ya, this woman was in pig-heaven.

Can you imagine?

Here’s the thing you guys, and I’ve found it to be true time and time again: Those that take pleasure in other’s misfortunes; in failures, divorces, even accidents and tragedies are the side-line sitters — the ones that never take any risk. They live with their butts glued in the safe-seats, and pass judgment on those of us that get our asses kicked on the playing field of life.

Of course they hate rich people, because they don’t have the courage to leave their shitty job and go out on their own. They never ask for a raise, pose the hard questions or have an inspired idea.

Instead, they keep their binoculars trained on the ones that do — watching and waiting for a mis-step.

They are also known to be riddled with envy.
They can’t be happy for anyone’s success; they dismiss it, chalking it up to luck, family money, contacts, astrology, nepotism, anything but hard work, and the guts to take chances.

They also have a hard time with happy marriages, good health, washboard abs, and expensive vacations. Oh, how they hate a nice vacation story!

Please, when you encounter someone like this — and they spew their toxic nonsense all over you — set them straight.

And then drive away…and take an expensive vacation…with rich people.

Love you, Carry on,
xox

I don’t know if you guys saw this essay by Liz Gilbert on Facebook yesterday, it’s an important topic and if you’ve already read it — go make yourself a sandwich and then read it again because you probably missed something.

It is my belief that our tolerance for someone being less than kind to us starts in childhood when we are powerless to stand up to authority or “sass” back a teacher or family member who lobs something unkind our way.

But there’s no excuse for putting up with that shit once you’re an adult — no excuse whatsoever!

The unkind words of others can cut you to the core (because really, isn’t that their intention?)

Other people grow a callus, a hard surface that the unkind words just sort of roll off of, I’m probably one of those people; but don’t let anyone tell you it doesn’t hurt — because it does.

Please take a minute to read this, it’s really good.

Here is the takeaway in a one sentence:
“Generally speaking, people are pretty much what they show you they are — not what you wish they were.”

May I also say right here, right now, that you guys, my readers, my tribe, are SO freakin’ kind and thoughtful, and…nice! It’s a rare commodity on the Internet and greatly appreciated. Love you guys!

Take it away Liz—
xox

“Dear Ones-
So I saw it happen again the other day.

Last week I watched as a friend of mine got (quite savagely) verbally attacked by a friend of hers. As I was comforting her later, she said, while brushing away tears of pain, “It’s OK. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that deep down she’s a really nice person.”
To which my question was: “HOW deep?”

I mean, if you dig down deep enough into ANYONE, you’ll find some traces of decency and humanity buried in there, right? (As they say, Hitler loved his dogs.) But how deep do you have to dig, in order to find that goodness?

How much toxic waste do you have to claw through with your bare hands, before you reach any evidence of hidden kindness?

How many layers of concrete do you have to blast through, before that person will let you see their one deeply hidden molecule of niceness?

And how much abuse do you have to take, in the meanwhile?

And is that really how you want to spend your life? Exhaustively trying to excavate scraps of decency from someone who has basically buried their goodness beneath a rubble of darkness?

I have the same reaction whenever I hear someone make these kinds of statements:
“I know she seems rude, but deep down she’s actually really kind.”
“I know he acts stingy, but deep down, he’s truly generous.”
“I know he lied to me and cheated on me, but deep down he still loves me.”
“I know she has a horrible temper and says awful things to her children, but deep down she’s a sweetheart.”

I don’t know, you guys. I don’t like it.

I’m not saying that you should throw people away or condemn them. Every major religion in the world asks us to search for the common light of humanity that is hidden within everyone. Of course you should always look for the best within people. Of course it’s enlightened to give people the benefit of the doubt. Of course it’s the highest virtue to forgive others for their shortcomings, as we would be forgiven for ours. Of course it’s compassionate to look at the difficult circumstances of a person’s life, in order to better understand why they may have turned out so broken, bitter, and mean. (Remember, though: Lots of other people had equally difficult destinies — or worse — and still find ways to be kind and generous to others.)

But it doesn’t mean you have to voluntarily expose yourself to abuse and cruelty.

Without denying the possibility that every thorn has its rose, I think it’s wise to keep your distance from people who repeatedly and consistently demonstrate injurious, neglectful, or flat-out cruel behavior. You can pray for them and wish the best for them, but you might want to cross the street when you see them coming, just to be on the safe side.

I don’t think it makes you extra spiritual to keep putting yourself in the pathway of degradation and suffering just because you have decided that — against all available evidence — this cruel person is actually a sweet person.

Generally speaking, people are pretty much what they show you they are — not what you wish they were.

People who behave cruelly toward you are more or less cruel people.

People who behave nicely toward you are generally nice people.
(Unless they are full-on sociopaths, of course, which most people are not.)
You can almost always count on that.

That being the case, I think you’re allowed to choose what sort of people with whom you wish to spend the precious waking hours of your one rare and beautiful life.

I choose to spend my life with people who are not afraid to wear their goodness and their niceness on the OUTSIDE.

I choose to spend my time with people who aren’t afraid to show love, or to receive love.

I choose to share my life with the nice humans.

I don’t find nice humans to be boring; I find them to be an oasis.
Keep it simple: Be nice to others, be nice to yourself.
ONWARD,
LG”

“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”
~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Hey you guys, how do you handle it when a project goes south, a relationship doesn’t work out or you lose your iPhone?

Processing loss.
What does that feel like to you? Kinda like you wasted your time and it,(the love, the attention, the years spent) was all for nothing?

Like a failure?
Do you go over and over the reasons in your head? All the coulda, shoulda, woulda’s?
Are you your own judge and jury, sentencing yourself to twenty years of sit ups and lunges for bad choices and various other transgressions?

Or is it more like a bump in the road?
“Okay, I gave it a shot. A ton of my time, energy and devotion went into this thing but the time has come to give up the good fight. I’ve been here before and I know how this works. It’s gonna hurt for a while, I’ll spend some time alone, licking my wounds; I will cry and scream and kick my dog until I rally, getting back on my feet…and then I will transfer all my contacts and info into a new phone and try to get on with my life.

I’m thinking it depends on the clarity of the ending. Some are clear-cut, easy to see; while others are ambiguous, shrouded in doubt.

Maybe you’re more like me — somewhere in the middle? Even occasionally ambivalent?

Don’t get me wrong, I can come unhinged, feeling completely abandoned when the book that I love or the TV series that makes me laugh out loud ends. When I see one lost glove I actively mourn their mate. So there’s that…

It gets worse.

I had a pair of huge, overstuffed down pillows that cost me more than I made in a month — for twenty years! I purchased them in Austria on vacation (naturally, I would have NEVER spent that on pillows at home — I didn’t even need pillows, I was pillow shamed by the rosy-cheeked Austrian goose down pillow lady in Salzburg) and then I lugged them all over Europe with me like a high-end, dough-boy gypsy — for three weeks.

Train stations, airplanes, restaurants, if I was on the move, they were with me. Why I didn’t ship them home I’ll never know.

Dammit I loved those guys.
Recently I made the long overdue decision to toss them. They were stained, lumpy and I’m sure mite infested. It took me FOREVER to make the decision, after all, we had been through so much together. I could only part with one at a time. It took me fifteen minutes to get up the strength to lower it into the disgusting black trash can on the morning of pick-up. Tears filled my eyes when it came time to do the same with the second one. I told my husband, late that night that I felt bad because it was so cold outside.

He just snarfed, he doesn’t understand when I give emotions to inanimate objects.

Remember when I couldn’t part with our ridiculously expensive sheets? (which I’ll have you know were also a vacation purchase).
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=4471&action=edit

Yet I’ve been known to walk away from commitments and projects, friendships that I deemed toxic, and even some romantic relationships — and never look back.

Ice queen or pragmatist?

I’m not sure which response is better so therefore I’ve come to the obvious realization that I suck at processing loss.

I am the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of endings.

Some things I am able to love and lose without much heartache at all, others gut me. I walked around in a marshmallow head stupor for five years after a bad break-up.

I’m either in tears about parting with a favorite sweater that is riddled with moth holes; unable to cope with decisions regarding my long dead business; or on the other hand throwing away mementos and keepsakes, photos, art projects and drawings from times gone by like a cold-hearted pirate separating his booty.

All this to say, I may not know shit from shinola but I do know this:
Death is sad;
friends come and go;
break-ups hurt;
gloves are made to be in pairs;
failure is inevitable;
And all loses are not created equal.

So, I’m in a quandary you guys and I’d love to know…

Which one are you? The sentimental saver, big-hearted devotee of all things you’ve loved? Or the cold, hard, rational pragmatist who understands loss and is able to move on unencumbered.

Or are you both and it depends on the loss?

Carry on,
xox

(This was taken during my five,eleven, fifteen-year “awkward phase” —you can see she had her work cut out for her).

I was reminded recently, as I continue my snarky, sweaty slog through my fifties, that I’ve done so without the guidance or fair warning of my mother. In all fairness she was too busy; engaged in the parental heavy-lifting of getting the three of us into adulthood, that it never occurred to her to share these pearls of wisdom.

So I’ll do you all the favor of pulling back the curtain, exposing all the hidden truths (in no particular order), of life in middle age.

1.) Invest in a good bra, and for godssakes if you have anything over a D cup, don’t jog. It is for that reason alone that I have to tell the girl at Nordstrom that I wear a 36 long.

2.) Carry an across-the-shoulder messenger bag and keep the weight below thirty-five pounds. Yes, you heard me. I have a divot in my shoulder and the posture of a Sherpa from carrying a bag that has been way too heavy for over forty years.

Oh, and ladies—after you stop menstruating, you can toss all the tampons. I’m giving you the all clear. I put them in my time capsule along with my Midol, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

It’s okay—give up the fight.

3.) If someone says they’re sorry — forgive them. You may never talk to them again, or wish them well, but the forgiveness will set you free.

4.) Make eye contact and remember people’s names, My trick? I repeat it back to them and use a rhyming game (in my head, not to their face).
Along those lines—Listen without interrupting, ask people questions about themselves and always introduce yourself and anyone standing with you.

These are the Golden Rules of any dinner party, staff meeting, black tie event or ladies restroom line — really, any social situation you may find yourself in.

5.) Use those dental-pick-thingies every night. I brush and floss like a maniac and yet I still manage to pull an entire steak dinner out from between my teeth with those things!

6.) Listen to advice but only from the smart people — Never the stupid ones. Pay attention. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

7.) Word to the wise. You can forget about those mustache and chin hairs.
After forty, pubic hair will lose its genetic coding and start migrating around your body.
It will crawl up your stomach and onto the back of your legs if you let it. I tried to wrangle mine, to fill in my over-tweezed eyebrows (a seventies fad that went horribly wrong), but to no avail.
I did find one on my arm last week. Consider yourselves warned.

8.) Men stay boys all their lives. This needs no explanation.

9.) Stay curious. About people, life and the planet. It will help to demystify every seemingly mundane, stupid thing that surrounds you.

10.) Beach hair only looks good on twenty-three year old models named Tia. The same goes for a navel piercing. Trust me on this.

11.) This is a big one. A lie is someone’s imagination working against them. Remember that.

12.) Always carry matches or a lighter. And lipstick. Always carry lipstick.

13.) You will never use calculus beyond college—but good table manners, clean fingernails and comfortable shoes will carry you far in life.

14.) Carrying (and reading) an interesting book will be an amazingly effective airplane conversation starter—and the perfect companion when dining alone.

15.) Be polite and try every food that is offered to you, (which means eat a bull testicle even if you’re a vegetarian). It will broaden your horizons in unimaginable ways and make you a sought after dinner guest.

16.) Self-tanner is a catastrophe-in-a-can waiting to happen. Make peace with your paleness. End of story.

17.) Know that your looks will fade and reconcile yourself with that. Your neck will waddle, the hair on your head will thin, and your breasts will sag. If you decide to take matters into your own hands, make sure your surgeon has a light touch.

You still want to look like you — only rested.

19.) Pay attention to your feet. They will start to fight back after fifty. All the years of squeezing them into severely pointed, one size too small, five-inch heels have made them…cranky.
Can you blame them?

20.) Take the effort to make a good first impression — you may never get a second chance.

And last but not least—reinvent. Don’t rest on you laurels, don’t question your intuition, and don’t tell yourself you’re too old, too fat, or too busy to reassess your situation and reinvent yourself.

Now pay this forward and don’t say I never gave you anything.

Carry on,
xox

This is an essay by my friend and fellow Carmel Writing Retreat attendee Denise Damron. Let me just tell you a little bit about her. First of all she missed the first night of introductions at the retreat because she was at a ROCK CONCERT. Don’t you love that!

This woman has her priorities straight.

She is quiet,(meaning she couldn’t get a word in edgewise)but when she did interject something into the conversation it was genuine, wry, dry…and smart. She is wicked smart.

So once I realized she was totally out of my league, I fell in love, like I do, with her and her writing.

Denise is finishing a fiction book about a young girl who realizes she’s descended from a long line of extremely unusual woman with very special magical powers. As I sat that week listening to her read various excerpts from the story, I was amazed at how well she captured a teenage girl’s hopes, dreams and oftentimes snarky personality. After reading this I am almost certain she patterned her heroine after her niece Penelope.

Geesh, these young girls are so much more self-aware and dialed in that I ever was then…or am now for that matter!

I know a lot of you guys have kids and the rest of us are going through huge transitions so I think you’ll be able to relate and even smile.

Take it away Denise:

“In my family we are birthday list-makers. I got the list below from my now nine-year-old soon-to-be ten-year-old niece last night. A sign she is growing up – NO DRESSES PLEASE!!!

It made me think back to when I was 10.

Was I so well-evolved at that age? I mean, look at this list.
This is the list of a girl who knows who she is and is not afraid to list it. She is girly and tough at the same time – note the warrior in her with her Minecraft sword and axe and the feminine in her with the vanilla perfume scent and O-P-I nail polish. She is Xena Warrior Princess in a pair of Louboutins.

I like to think the dark red lipstick is a nod to me, her aunt, since I will not take out the trash without wearing my red lipstick.

At that age I was just beginning to dream of being a famous writer-singer-actress-world traveler. I felt invincible. I was going to break the glass ceiling. I was going to be President of the United States or make sure a woman became president (I was an early feminist).

So what happened to me in the years that transpired since I was 10? Middle school nasty girls, too-much-partying high school, sorority girl Pappagallo shoes and pink Izods in college , first job-first apartment independence, bloom-off-the-rose second, third, fourth, and more, until finally my last job as a director in a Fortune 100 company. Throughout many of those years I wish I would have had a Haters Back Off Miranda Sings shirt to warn away the soul sucking crazies I ran across in my work.

I just had my 54th birthday in April and one year after leaving my corporate job to start my own business and write my novel (both of which I accomplished) I feel like I’ve come full circle back to the girl I once was. Older, yes. Wiser, hope so. But still full of dreams and hopes and wishes for the future. Now, instead of making a list of stuff I want (although I can always use more red lip stick) I take the opportunity to list the things I want to accomplish in the next year.

Here’s my list in no particular order:
• Find an agent to publish my young adult novel
• Finish my PhD dissertation
• Stay close to nature and take more walks with my Siberian Husky Gracie
• Keep my life filled with music by going to more concerts
• Let the voices and pictures in my head out by starting my next novel
• Channel Miranda Sings’ Haters Back Off mantra by being true to myself
• Connect more with positive friends
• Meditate and keep my chakras cleared
• Generate positive, productive, awe-inspiring energy
• Political comment alert: Work on getting Hilary elected
• Stay tuned in/check in on a regular basis with my body, mind, and spirit

Here is my niece’s birthday list:

PENELOPE’S 10TH BIRTHDAY WISHLIST BY:PENELOPE GRACE

• T-Mobile Sim Card
• Justice Dance Bow Graphic Tee
• Justice Zebra Cross Back Leotard
• Nerf Rebelle Agent Bow
• Haters Back Off Miranda Sings Pants
• Haters Back Off Miranda Sings Shirt
• Emoji Pillows
• Bright Red Lipstick
• NO DRESSES PLEASE!!!
• Minecraft Sword
• Minecraft Axe
• Justice Gift Card
• Coconut Perfume Scent
• Vanilla Perfume Scent
• O-P-I Nail Polish
• Crackle Nail Polish
• Dark Red Lipstick”

Carry on my friends,
xox

Here is the link for Denise’s new company:
themarketingimagination.com

Here is the link for the Carmel Retreats:
bookmama.com

I’m certain my face looked identical to this! LOl!

I was startled Wednesday; on my walk; by a bird…who flew at full speed into my left shoulder and then kept going. Apparently it had a full morning and no manners.

I walk with earphones, traversing the neighborhood in a kind of meditation stupor so you can imagine my surprise when something hit me from behind.

I would have LUUUUVED to have seen my face. I’m certain it was an attractive mixture of what-the-hell surprise and indignation.
I think I may have even yelped…and done a skip-kick.

Some would have called it a scream-cry, although it wasn’t; it was the WTF yulp of a middle-aged woman in yoga pants, with arms weights and boob sweat, chugging along at eight thirty in the morning, minding her own business and smiling at dogs.

In other words, just another fitness failure trying to get some cardio in by walking ten thousand steps in order to stave off writer’s ass.

I gotta tell ya it stopped me in my tracks, (I kept my feet moving while I looked around, in order to keep my heart rate up, YO!) but there were no witnesses to my hit and fly, so I just shrugged and kept on movin’.

Since you know me by now and the fact that I can’t take ANYTHING at face value, I made a metal note to look up “personal bird strike” when I got home. But since my brain is currently made of swiss cheese…I promptly forgot.

Upon returning home I got sidetracked into bringing in the trash bins, sweeping the patio, looking at old recipes, and trimming dead fronds off of the ferns that frame the fountain by the back deck off of our bathroom. That fountain then reminded me in a not-so-friendly-way that it needed to be cleaned. Badly. It gurgled my name, taunting me: Janet…come on…don’t keep ignoring me…stop being an ass…please…clean me…

What was once a lovely, melodic stream of water is now an anemic, name calling trickle, due to a filter that looks like the lungs of a three pack a day smoker. Clogged, black and ineffective.

Three weeks ago I had laid out the rubber gloves and bucket and then lost my enthusiasm for the project and left them there to remind me. So, the supplies were there and I had the time, which meant I got to work emptying the water one bucketful at a time in order to get to the leaves at the bottom and give the filter a fighting chance.

The reason I’m telling you this is: Midway through the scooping of the water — out comes a dead bird. A small, (not a baby) obviously not so bright, brown bird. I’ve observed them bathing and drinking in that fountain for years, so, unless this was a suicide, or a contract hit, this guy had not been the sharpest tool in the shed.

And it made me wonder: What the fuck is the thing with birds today? I can go years, no make that decades, without a bird incident; so I immediately ran inside to look it up lest I see something shiny and forget once again.

There is a ton written on birds hitting widows, planes, and cars, but people — not so much. And when they do, they usually hit them in the head, often to weigh in on a morning of bad bed-head by grabbing a few stands and some scalp for their nest or to warn them away from their hatchlings.

MY bird was nowhere near my head.
Maybe he was trying to grab me under the arm and carry me to his nest; or in order to fashion a cape for me like the birds in Snow White, he was trying to get my arm length measurements.
The jury is still out.

The inter-web also mentions the fact that sometimes birds just don’t see the things they fly into — like I’m invisible. Not a real boost to my self-esteem.

I posted on Facebook: On my walk this morning a small bird flew into the back of my left shoulder and then kept going without so much as a “Pardon Me”. What do you think, texting while flying or an Omen?

When I looked it up here’s what THEY say about Omens:
“Everything is an omen, really.(We knew that) There is a reason for everything, nothing happens by accident. We just need to learn to realize these omens and how to interpret them easily. The more “wild” the omen, the more “dramatic” the outcome, or so it would seem.

Many people feel that birds represent freedom, as they can soar up into the sky where there are no obstacles and go wherever they wish, and then return to the Earth once more. Also because of this I suppose you could view them as almost having two aspects: one that departs and one that returns. What that means to you is up to you. Also, one could consider birds as messengers. Some view them as messengers to the gods. There is a phrase that begins, “a little bird told me…” (I thought that started with my seventh grade teacher Miss Law who was sneakily trying to get to the truth of a math quiz scandal)
To me, birds also represent awareness, since they can soar above almost anything on this planet and can witness everything–taking place outside, at least. They are like the wind. They start out one place and end up in another, carrying stories and memories with them.”

Okay…Kind of a stretch, but I get that everything is an omen, so I looked up dead bird and here’s the message there:

These beautiful animals are actually messengers from the Divine, Spirit, Universe, God, whatever name you choose. The message is not one of doom and gloom, you are not going to die in the next three days, it is not a “forerunner” of death and destruction. (Well, THAT’S a relief.)
Dead birds are actually very similar to the “Death” card in a tarot deck. It represents a death, but it is a death of something you have been focused on. It could be the death or “end” of a bad relationship, or a bad financial situation, or a behaviour pattern you have been wanting to break, etc. And with all things that end, the way is then clear for new opportunities to come into your life. (Yippee)
For instance, if you are in an unhealthy relationship, it is unlikely that a new healthy relationship is going to come into your life if you are still involved or healing from the unhealthy one. Once you have dealt with it and are ready to move on, the universe will send you a message to let you know that it is now time to move forward with your life.
That is what these dead birds are, a message that whatever you were dealing with is now “dead” and behind you and you are now ready to move forward with the new opportunity that has been presenting itself to you but that you have been ignoring for some reason. So, see the sign, and determine what message it is sending you and be grateful that you have now received the message and start looking for the new opportunity.
http://pathwayconnection.com/what-does-seeing-dead-birds-mean/

As I’ve written about lately, there are SO MANY endings and beginnings for me right now that this makes perfect sense — and I know that a bunch of you guys are going through the same thing, so take my bird omen and run (fly) with it.

What is mine is yours, as always — you’re welcome!

Do you believe in omens or animal totems? Got a story you’d like to share? Think this is all a big bag of bullshit?

Carry on,
xox

SERIOUS F-BOMB ALERT!

On Sunday my friend Kim and I were sharing a Nutella sundae in a beautiful park in Beverly Hills and at one point she looked over at the obvious joy on my face (which went well with my vanilla gelato mustache) and asked me “If you could be any place in the world right now, where, and with whom would that be?“

“Right here, right now” was my answer and I was serious.

My go to happiness answer is always Italy — anywhere in Italy. A basement in the Vatican, some dark alley, it doesn’t matter — Italy always wins. But that day it kinda felt like Italy, what with the good company, the great weather, and the perfect Nutella gelato and all.

“Your joy ceiling is set pretty high” she said with a smile full of conviction.

I nodded emphatically, not sure what the fuck she was talking about as I scarfed all the pools of Nutella while she explained.

She proceeded to tell me about this video which explained the joy ceiling, and the fact that Jesus wept his was so low. (Don’t get your panties in a bunch, it’s a joke…or is it?)

Then she sent it to me. Thanks Kim!

Take a look — its short, its hilarious, and that broad of all broads Ellen Barkin says fuck a lot. What could be better?

Now lemme know what you think about the concept of a personal joy ceiling. I think its genius…and accurate.

Okay you guys, where’s your personal joy ceiling? (BTW mine is not always set high, it is VERY conditional, there has to be hazelnut and chocolate and gelato involved).  

Enjoy and carry on,
xox

The other day in the comments section of my blog about aging, my blogger/friend over at Gemini Ascending answered the question I so brazenly posed at the end:
“Okay you guys, what little thing (dying your hair is a little thing, you can always dye it back) can YOU do to halt your aging process and help yourself look more like you feel inside?”

She said she was the same age that I am and that she was going to get the tattoo she’d been wanting.

Now me, being the ever curious nosey-pants that I am, I couldn’t just say great or good for you, I had to ask what and where?

“The tree of life on my shoulder” was her reply. I thought that sounded like a fantastic idea but again, I just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

The thing is you guys, I feel like I know all of you — like you’re my friends, especially when we converse via the comments, then we’re like BFF’s (said in a Valley girl voice while flipping my hair and loudly chewing gum). So I reacted like I would to any of my friends, like we do to each other, “I double-dog-dare you to do it, and share the picture. You have until the last day of your 57th year…game on!”

I know, it’s a bit confrontational, especially directed toward an absolute stranger, but hey, what the hell, I tell you guys EVERYTHING and I showed you a picture of my purple fringe.

Here’s the thing: A Double Dog Dare is a relic from my tween days, so that being said it is petty harmless.

Still, it is the ultimate, last word in dares. It means that I just did something a little dangerous and often utterly terrifying and now I want you to join me. There is no going back after a double dog dare. You either do it; or you walk the walk of shame.

Then yesterday, in my inbox was the most recent blog post from Gemini Ascending with the title I Double Dog Dare You.

Gulp. Shit. Had I gone too far? I didn’t mean anything by it except to nudge her toward her perfect tattoo. I’m not gonna lie, I was afraid to open it. Take a look:

https://geminiascending.wordpress.com/2015/05/03/i-double-dog-dare-you/comment-page-1/#comment-209

Whew! Crisis averted. She was up to the challenge. I knew she would be, I had just underestimated the persuasive power behind The Double Dog Dare. It has an alchemy all it’s own and I have to be more careful when I throw it down. Things will change, people will dig deep and find their courage and shit. will. go. down.

So I learned my lesson; for about twelve hours.

Today (Monday) at the dentist, my beloved hygienist, during our one hour, mostly one-sided gab-fest, mentioned aging and her girlfriends and how happy she was that she hadn’t jumped on the retirement bandwagon. Several of her close friends had retired and then gone right back to work out of sheer boredom. One retired couple she knows eats breakfast, takes a walk, eats lunch, takes a nap (yawn — kill me now)…you get the picture.

“Why aren’t they traveling, being philanthropic or taking classes?” I inquired, amazed. “I know” she replied, “I would keep so busy!”

“What would you do, maybe take a dance class?” Uh oh…here I go, even with five of her fingers inside, my mouth starts asking questions.

“Yes!”  she exclaimed, and then told me to rinse.

She went on to explain, “When I was twelve to fifteen I used to take tap, I even took it when my girls were small. One of my patients is a choreographer and when she was here six months ago it came up somehow; anyway she told me about a tap class for people over fifty.”

Since her hands were otherwise occupied my mouth took the opportunity to cross-examine ask her about this class.

“Well, why aren’t you taking it? Did you call? You’ve GOT to do this!”

The conversation had struck a cord with her I could see it in her eyes, “I know! I just never got the info from her, we were supposed to exchange emails…”

I could feel the words start to bubble up. They began in my big toe, rose up into my belly; moving again to my throat; then my lips started forming the words…

“I double dog dare you to take the tap class Jeanette!” Now I’d gone and done it again — thrown down the gauntlet; pulled out the big guns.

The Double Dog Dare hung in the air overpowering even the sound of the drill in the next room. Now, you have to be careful with what you say to your dental hygienist lest she get all Marathon Man on your ass. Luckily she seemed open to the idea so I was safe for the time being, I just needed to keep my mouth shut; well open, but just nodding; no talking.

“You know” she said, all excited, “She’s due back in here for a cleaning this month, I’ll ask her for the details then.”

Her face lit up and she looked more like her fifteen year old self with every passing minute.

“I bet the girls at the desk have her contact information, why wait?  Email her today, in the subject say, “I feel like tap dancing” and give her your personal email address. She’ll be cool with it — after all, she offered the info.”

My teeth cleaning was over so I could safely say that and then make a run for it.

You’re right, she will, I’m going to look up her info right now.” She was practically skipping.

“Hey Jeanette…do the recitals at the end of every session. They’ll scare the shit out of you and when you’re waiting backstage with your family in the audience you’ll think to yourself: What the fuck have I done? and then you’ll go on that stage and you’ll be fifteen again…it’s intoxicating…and the adrenalin is good for your skin.”

That stopped her in her tracks, she spun around and her eyes were like a deer’s in the headlights. “Oh well, I don’t know about that…” she stammered, feeling the fear.

“At our age what do we do that scares us? Think about it. We stick with all the stuff we’re good at. I Double Dog Dared myself into doing musical theatre a couple of years ago and it was the most terrifying yet exhilarating thing I’d done in decades. Just do it!”

“You’re right” she said like someone who has just been told they have to do something excruciating, like give up sugar for a year.

“Janette; call her, take the tap class and dance in the recital…I Double Dog Dare you.”

Damn I’m pushy.

And sometimes, I swear to God my mouth says stuff my ears can’t believe; but as I left she gave me a big, long hug and thanked me. For reminding her about dancing and feeling alive and aging and feeling fifteen again.

Whew, another disaster averted and not a bad day at the dentist.

Ok you guys..I double dog dare you to take a least ONE action. Something you’ve been putting off, waiting for the perfect time. We’ve been focused on age related activities but it can be anything!

Come on — what’s it gonna be?

Carry On, and on, and on,

xox